A Sherlockian Christmas Collection
by WitchRavenFox
Summary: A collection of drabbles around characters in Sherlock over various Christmas seasons spanning many years. Not tied to any one verse, although there may be some overlaps. Some suggested slash/het/possible femme slash inside, with romance, friendship, family scenes.
1. Chapter 1

**Molly's Surprise Present**

Molly stepped through the heavy doors and let them swing closed behind her, unable to use what little energy she had left on something so trivial. She had a list full of bodies to get through today, some were young, and some… well some had lived a full life.

Christmas always made the lonely feel worse.

She clicked on the overhead florescent and couldn't exactly miss the very large box that sat on her desk to one side of the room. Everyone knew that she preferred to work the Christmas stint, no family to really focus on, only her two cats at home to worry over – this was just another day.

Except that no one really bought her gifts. Not really – buying them for yourself doesn't count, you already know what's in them, don't you?

So the box, the box that sat there as though it belonged there on her desk was for her. The deep purple paper with white – no, that was creamy beige – ribbons made her think of two men that she knew very well. One was awkward and acted as though he was still a spoilt teenager, and the other was a steady and safe man who had a hard edge.

Molly wasn't sure how she knew that it was from them, except in the back of her mind she recalled Sherlock talking about how wrapping paper could tell you about the person - in this case persons - it was from.

Her fingers itched to rip open the paper and get into the box. Did Sherlock know the one thing she wanted? DId John temper that impulse and set something equally sweet? How did they always know between them how to emotionally and mentally take care of people?

Molly fingered the cream ribbon when her phone trilled with a message.

_Molly, do not under any circumstance open that gift before Christmas. I've been advised it's bad luck. -SH_

Molly laughed at her phone, Sherlock was right, of course, she did believe it was bad luck, something her mum always told her growing up. She pushed the present back on her desk when her phone went again.

_Hi Molly, sorry about Mr. Genius. If you want to open the pressie, go ahead, but it will be best on Christmas morning. We'll see you later in the week at ours for Christmas drinks, right? JW_

Molly fired off a message to John - who was always nicer - with an okay, and set about her day with frequent glances at the present. She wondered to herself how her life got to where it was, but despite everything, she was happy. Molly was also looking forward to putting a present under her tree that she didn't wrap her, and she wondered if she would have more as the years went by.

This Christmas was going to be an amazing change in her life, she could feel it. This was not a Christmas where Molly would feel lonely.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Baby at Baker Street**

There is a baby at Baker Street. Her name is Violet, and she is a gift - of sorts - from one Molly Hooper to two men she holds very dear, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Only a month old, her Dads are still getting to grips with fatherhood, and she has them wrapped around her precious little fingers.

"John, you have to see what she is doing! Come here immediately." Sherlock stepped back and admired the small baby, who had her eyes fixed firmly on him.

John leaned against the doorway of the kitchen and crossed his arms. "Love, she won't be doing much, she's only four weeks old. She sees, but not in a way that makes sense to us as adults…"

"Oh, I know that!" Sherlock quipped. "It's more the way she is holding her little fingers in fists. Look at those digits… I think she has my hands."

John stepped into Sherlock's embrace and looked over their daughter, Violet Watson-Holmes. She had a mass of dark curls atop of her head, and she did indeed have long pink fingers. John secretly thought that was down to the wonderful Molly more than anything. After both Sherlock and John had discussed wanting someone who would be similar to them both, Molly had walked in on one of their conversations and announced she would be happy to, as a favour for very dear friends. Her only conditions were that she would be an aunt who would happily babysit whenever she could.

John picked up the wide-eyed beauty and cradled her close. Her eyes were still a dark steely blue like his own, but John thought they were likely to change. She had Molly's small mouth, which could easily be called his own, but kept it to himself. "Yes, love. These could absolutely be your fingers, wrinkles and all. I imagine you'll want her to play an instrument?"

Sherlock wrapped his longer arms around John and Violet, and looked down on her from John's shoulder. Sherlock was actually very convinced that she was smiling at them now, her little gummy mouth drawn up at the corners, but he knew that scientifically speaking it was more likely to be wind. In this respect, with his Violet, science was wrong. Sherlock saw Molly's cheeks in her face and John's eyebrows, which would come in handy for frowning at him when she didn't get her own way in the years to come.

"She can play anything she likes. She can sing like an angel or play the drums. Hell, I'll even get her a violin…"

"We'll need better insulation." John quipped.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rolled on. "Whatever she wants to do, we'll know it is because of who we are, and who Molly is, and who Vi is supposed to be." He laid a kiss on John's neck as they rocked Violet back to a soft sleep, of course when John placed her back in her cot she woke.

Apparently Violet preferred to sleep in someone's arms or not at all, as her glance clearly said how unimpressed she was before her lip begun to quiver. John swept her up and sat in his armchair while Sherlock went about a harmless experiment in the kitchen. Having a baby at Baker Street was a positive thing for everyone.

John murmured a story about a man who came back from war and found excitement, a home, and the love of his life while Violet stirred and placed her hand on his chest. He nestled her closer and told her how these two men loved so deeply that they wanted a baby, and they were blessed with a little girl that they named Violet, and they lived happily ever after.

_**AN:** When this idea came to me, it was very much so about ensuring these two men helped to make a life together with the help of a dear friend, and that DNA to prove who was the biological father wasn't important. I don't know anything about artificial insemination and so I did take liberties with surrogacy and artificial insemination scenario. If anyone has any suggestions to make this more realistic - please let me know. Although I don't go into any real details, I hope that this info gives a small glean about my intention here. You will be seeing Violet again in a later Xmas drabble, so you'll be able to decide which daddy she most resembles in personality. – Thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Reconnected for Christmas**

Sherlock poured the tea into three cups – fine china – and went about mixing them to the three very different tastes. He passed one over to John, who smiled at him with a steely gaze before taking a sip, white with no sugar. He passed another over to Harry, who frowned into it distrustfully despite seeing him mix the pot from scratch, black two sugars, and she tried to not look at John and failed.

John mouthed the words to some sixty's Christmas song that went on about a 'jingle bell hop', and Sherlock shook his head internally. Mendelssohn it was not.

Neither of the Watson's spoke until it was clear that Sherlock would have to be the one to start the dialogue. Sherlock resisted the urge to look at his watch and count down the hours until Christmas and spoke simply.

"You are both being imbeciles."

Sherlock spoke quietly, but not quietly enough as Harry launched into insults directed solely at him.

"Who the hell are you calling an imbecile? John is just as smart as you, he understands people, human emotion. If I had even half as much strength as him, maybe I would have gotten sober ages ago. I've nothing going for me; I'm just an alcoholic with a broken marriage. I've a job that I'm good at, but doesn't make my heart thump. I wouldn't even know where to start."

"Oh give over Harry. You have will power; you just prefer not to use it these days. And it's not that I disapprove of, it's having a foot in Clara's life and not letting her move on. You need to move on to the next thing in your life. You have so much to give someone, if you only let yourself do it." John piqued, he spoke evenly – for the most part – and looked at her. "You don't see how wonderful you could be. What about that hobby you had when you were eighteen? What was it, football coaching? Get into a sport again, and get out there. Meet people, have a support system… find someone who will accept you and know how to bring the best out of you. We Watson's are made of strong stuff."

Sherlock hid behind his cup and observed, because this was a family thing, first and foremost, and while he knew he was John's family, Harry didn't see him that way. He was an interloper. But Sherlock didn't want another Christmas where John would look sad because of her. He was getting this sorted so they could have a nice warm Christmas, just in time for a case on Boxing Day.

"Johnny…"

"I'll be here, Harry. Big Brother and all that." John covered her hand on the table over his own. "I know I am tough on you, Harry, I knew it growing up, but we had it rough. Thing is..."

Harry waited. Sherlock waited, and John couldn't verbalise those last words, he just stared into a space between with an open mouth until Sherlock had another moment of sensitivity.

"Harry, what John means to say is that you can do be that tough Harry now, while you still have the ideas, and the drive. Make a life for yourself, and be a part of ours. It's not something I need, personally, but it is important to John that you are around. He needs that connection."

"It is important to me, Harry. You are...I don't want my future without my sister."

"You are important to me too. I'm going to try, I can't promise I'll succeed, I've done that before, but I'm going to try to make you proud, to do something better with myself. I'll need your help."

The Watson's smiled at each other, truly, their eyes lit up with echoes of the lights around the fireplace that blinked with a steady rhythm. From the middle of the table, Sherlock could see just how similar they looked. Reunited for Christmas, they looked younger than they had when they sat at the table.

Harry started reminiscing about a their last family Christmas, before their Dad died, and Sherlock listened quietly, absorbing everything he could about how the Watson's before him became what they are.

If they spent Christmases like this in the future, learning more about John and his family, Sherlock wouldn't mind. Finding festive spirit in their family made a difference, Sherlock could chalk that up as being something else that John gave him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Fortnum and Mason**

Greg tidied the last pile on his desk in a hurry and just about managed to close his door quietly. Sally was still in the office by her desk, she had no reason to go home just yet, but he did. He had to admit that being in a relationship with Mycroft had changed some of his priorities. He'd climbed the ladder, he was where he wanted to be, and he didn't want to climb any higher. He had the kids; he had Mycroft and an amazing extended family. What more could he want in life.

Greg let the main door of New Scotland Yard swing closed behind him and he fought back the instinct to buy cigarettes as he took a step, and heard his mobile ring with the national anthem. Greg wasn't overly patriotic at the best of times, but this did describe his caller to a tee. Mycroft had once joked that Sherlock often called him the lost royal.

"Evening, Myc. I've just finished, but I bet you knew that." Greg joked as he walked to the corner. The weather was mild, considering it was less than a week to Christmas Day, and Greg hadn't bothered to tighten his scarf up from the slight wind.

"Good evening, Gregory. I know you've left work. Stop walking a moment and get into the car please, love." Mycroft's silken voice came down the line and went straight to his groin, and Greg stopped almost mid-step. True to form, and much practice, a black limousine pulled up to the pavement and the driver popped out to open the door. Gregory stooped to get in, and was pleasantly surprised when a warm hand grabbed his own and tugged him practically in a lap. "Much better, now you can see me too."

The car slid away from the pavement as Mycroft ducked his lips to Greg's own for a sweet kiss before he let him up but keeping their hands interlocked. Mycroft smelt like his favourite fragrance to wear, Issey Miyake, and it drove him crazy. Greg smiled stupidly to himself as he watched London sweep by and he knew they weren't driving back to his place in Clapham, and they were not heading to Mycroft's townhouse, so where?

"I'm taking you to a shopping trip, Gregory. You don't have to buy anything, but it's a shop that I love very much, I get my best things from there," Mycroft turned a slow smile on him, "I'll get you some of the best things from there too, if you would like me to."

"That depends entirely on where we're going."

Greg watched as bright blue eyes crinkled minutely, a look only a very discerning person would notice as a reluctant thought crossing Mycroft's very large and intelligent brain, one he showed only his closest of people. "What if I simply said, 'trust me'?"

Greg kissed Mycroft's knuckles one by one and on a whim, drew Mycroft's left thumb into his mouth and shifted to sit beside him. "I would say 'always', because I always trust you to know what you are doing Myc. C'mon, take me anywhere and you know I wont complain."

"Except for…"

"Except for that hotel in London that left me possibly scarred for life. If that ever happens again, I'll complain." Greg snorted as he leaned into the crooked arm that Mycroft offered him and felt as well as heard Mycroft's rich agreeable laughter of move through him.

Greg spoke about his day and his cases, and Mycroft made all the right noises and suggestions about where he could look for answers, sometimes even suggesting Sherlock for the legwork, which got them both laughing as they pulled up to the curb. Greg watched Mycroft's face take on a look of quiet glee and he opened the door himself, and not wait for the driver - which told Greg everything he needed to know. Mycroft was full of excitement and it was contagious, just like Christmas spirit.

When Greg stepped onto the pavement he knew he was just past Piccadilly, and he stood at the doors to Fortnum and Mason. He knew the place, had liked to come for the varied food court in the basement, but it was after eight in the evening now.

"Myc?"

"Gregory?" Mycroft stood behind him, his breath caressed Greg's ears and did more funny things to his stomach.

"Isn't it shut at this time?"

Mycroft guided them to the door and it opened before him, like magic, and they were enveloped into beautiful heat. "Not when your family have shopped here for many years and dispensed as much money as we have. We can start in the base level, with the food... or I can take you to the place I love the most in this store."

Greg smiled and led Mycroft to the stairs that wound up, and he wished they had a home together, with a staircase like the one they were on. Hand in hand they walked until they reached the menswear floor.

Mycroft's face broke into a momentary grin before swooping in for a quick kiss and then his public face was restored and he brought Greg into his world. Greg glanced and clothes that he knew he couldn't afford in his wildest dreams, and felt the cost literally dripping from them.

There were a set of pajamas that Greg knew Mycroft had, only a few weeks old, and when he touched them his suspicions were confirmed with the fine fabric that was far beyond the local Topman or Burton store from the local high street. A collection of umbrellas and walking canes Greg was sure he'd seen in Mycroft's study... Greg felt as though Mycroft had purchased half the store and taken it home.

Even in the stationary, Greg could see echoes of Mycroft using it in his own surroundings or the Diogenes Club. He felt quite lost and out of his league, and yet so humbled to have Mycroft share this part of himself.

"Pick something you like, Gregory, as a sort of pre-Christmas present. You can have anything here, but there is a condition, and it isn't based on my affections, don't worry."

"Name the condition and I'll see what I can do."

"Whatever you pick stays at my home. That is for the duration of Christmas, and beyond." Mycroft glanced at Greg and then chose to delicately rephrase. "Whatever you choose lives with me, as I hope you will come to live with me. Please."

The last was said quietly that Greg almost didn't hear, but he wasn't going to make Mycroft repeat himself, he hated it. Instead, Greg guided them over to the chessboard on display and fingered the carved wooden pieces.

"I like this, Myc. I like a game of chess to keep the old grey matter churning. If we kept this in the living room it would be the place of many a wager, don't you think?"

Greg enjoyed the sensation fo Mycroft's pale eyes connecting with his own brown ones, and the smile that broke free was the most heart warming of things.

A hand was held, then there was a chaste kiss or two, until Mycroft put some space between them and went to the sales assistant and spoke in hushed tones. On his return he simply guided Greg to the stairs where they walked down in companionable silence until they left the store, Mycroft only speaking to the employees as they passed them.

Within the confines of the car, Greg took Mycroft's hand in his own, and played with the signet ring on his pinkie. "You did just ask me to move in with you, right?"

"Yes."

"You got that I said yes, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Good, I was starting to wonder what was taking you so long."

"Well I had to wait for the right time. Christmas time. It's when I first realised how I felt about you. Think of where you were a year ago compared to now. I had to be sure that you were sure."

"After taking me to Fortnum's, I'm a sure thing. Take me home and do unspeakable things with your candy cane please." Greg managed to laugh out before his lips were rather more busy.

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AN: Thank you for taking the time to read, favourite, and follow. I know my usual style is far more smutty, but when I write at the moment what comes out is fluffy and family orientated - who knew? Please leave me a review to let me know what you think, or even give a one word suggestion for what you would like to see, and I will try my best to make sure you get it before Christmas, worked into one of these drabbles.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Present for Daddy**

The living room of 221B was warm, the fire burning, and lights tinkled in purple and soft white everywhere. The tree was up, the bottom heavily decorated by tinsel and baubles where Violet could easily reach, the top decorated with trinkets equidistant from each other in opposition.

Two sharp minds of varying ages sat opposite each other with a present to wrap between them.

"Do you think that Daddy will be pleased by this, Papa?" Violet asked with her small voice. She had many voices, of course including the 'imitate Papa' voice which often sounded sarcastic, 'imitate Daddy' voice which was often filled with warm authority, and 'imitate' Nana Hudson voice which tended to chide lovingly.

"Vi, he will love this. He'll love it as much as he loves you, which is a quite a lot. C'mon, which paper do you think that he would love the most?" Sherlock offered the choice between the shiny purple and the red with snowflakes. Violet chewed on her lip, she knew that if it were her present she would want the purple paper, but she knew Daddy liked all sorts of silly things at Christmas, so the snowflake paper won out.

"Papa, can I cut the paper? I have my scissors here. See!" Violet picked up her scissors enthusiastically as her cheeks flushed at the idea of doing something so grown up. When it was Daddy's birthday some months ago, she wasn't allowed to the do the cutting. Of course she knew she was four then, still a little girl, but having just turned five, Papa should say yes. He showed her the microscope a few days ago to look at cells and that was pretty amazing.

Sherlock smiled, "Of course. I'll hold both sides, but you have to go slowly."

Sherlock rolled out the paper and measured it against the present and showed Violet where to cut, and then off she went. She pale cheeks flushed with excitement when she got to the end, and she almost clapped until Sherlock raised a brow at the scissors still in her hand. She placed them on the floor with all the care of a surgeon, and then clambered into Sherlock's lap.

They folded the edges together - Violet holding down the corners as instructed - while Sherlock stuck the tape down, sometimes over Violet's finger as she giggled "how silly Papa". When it was all stuck down, Sherlock handed Violet the label and a pen to write her message, only having to ask about some words to spell.

When it was wrapped perfectly with fairly neat round handwriting labelling it as being for Daddy, Violet went to read in Sherlock's armchair, curled up with a Union Flag cushion.

Sherlock picked up his violin and stood by the window, looking over Violet, and played a lullaby he played the night Violet was brought home and made her sleep soundlessly through the night. He thought about the present for on, a simple picture frame decorated by their daughter who decided that her hand print would look fetching on the back and chose the picture to be inserted.

He remembered the date of the picture easily, how could he not, it was Violet's first Christmas day with her two father's wrapped around her to keep her safe.

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A/N: Thank you for reading (again). please let me know what you think. Also, its unbeta'd and only checked by me.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: **This is the second chapter posted tonight, so if you haven't read _A Present for Daddy_, please go back a chapter for some Sherlock/Violet bonding.

**Under the Mistletoe**

Mycroft was working his way through another boring report where an employee attempted to explain why they were filmed in various acts with a prostitute in his own home, a home he shared with his line manager and wife. He sighed and pinched his nose before he scrawled a note for Anthea to follow-up on in the morning.

He wanted to go home, and pick Gregory up so they could have a romantic dinner. He wanted to snuggle on the sofa and watch some silly movie that Gregory thought would be interesting. He wanted to go to bed with his comforting warmth and spend the night being pulled into oblivion.

Mycroft felt his phone vibrate before the Dr Who theme tuned played. All Gregory's idea, he loved the sci-fi show, and if Mycroft was completely honest with himself – which he endeavoured to be everyday – he quite enjoyed the show too. There was something about the reboot doctors that left him feeling like it was okay to be serious and equally okay to be silly. He flicked open the message.

_From GL 19.12.12_

_Myc, I know you've had a busy day, but the Yard's Xmas do is tonight. Please come and join/save me from 7pm. G xx_

Mycroft's fingers were flying over the keypad with a response before he could stop himself. It was an invitation to take their relationship public with his work colleagues, obviously, and Mycroft wasn't one to squander an opportunity.

I'll be there at 7pm. I'll also try not to emotional disturb any of your friends. MH

Mycroft smiled as he sent the message, and wished the afternoon to disappear. He smiled as he thought of seeing Greg this evening after two days just texts and phone calls.

Greg smiled as he took a mouthful of his beer chased down by a very smooth whiskey as the disco music thumped loudly in his ears. He was happy, more than happy, and when Mycroft got here he would feel complete. It's funny because he never used that word with his ex-wife - complete - but Mycroft made him feel it.

Sally pulled him up to the dance floor, she had mainlined shots since they left the office at 5pm. They swung each other around gripping onto each other and they laughed hard until Sally's eyes fell on Anderson with his wife at a table and she sighed hard.

"He is never gonna leave her, is he Greg?"

"It could happen, Sally. He does care about you." Personally Greg thought Anderson like d to have his cake and eat it too, but after all these years, he must be fond of her.

"Right," Sally plastered a smile on her face, "he just cares about her more."

They danced together slowly until Greg felt a hand on his shoulder surrounded in heat. "May I cut into this dance, Sargeant Donovan? I'd like to dance with my partner."

When Greg turned around, he got to see Mycroft in all of his beauty, standing there tall and self-contained in a three-piece suit. He looked impeccable and smelled divine. Sally begged off quickly towards the bar, but Greg barely noticed as Mycroft brought his body in close.

They danced, Mycroft talked to his co-workers, and a lot of them felt comfortable despite knowing that it was Sherlock's older brother was very powerful. By nine o'clock they propped up the bar with a whiskey and talked about their day, it was relaxing and easy six months into their relationship.

So easy in fact, that when Mycroft drew Greg into a kiss - mid sentence - that started slow and sweet. Greg went with it completely forgetting that he was surrounded by co-workers and let Mycroft control everything, even when they stopped.

Greg came to his senses somewhat looking up into blue eyes that were filled with passion. Looking past Mycroft he saw something green hanging above them. Small and green.

"Did you kiss me just because we were under mistletoe?" Greg's voice was laced with humor as he slung an arm around Mycroft's neck.

"Gregory...What do you think of me?" Mycroft laced he voice with mock shock.

"That you are the devious British Government, and you will do anything you can to get exactly what you want," Gregory pressed himself against Mycroft's body, "and now you want me. So, let's go home Mycroft. Take me home, and let's take this mistletoe along with and see where else you can kiss, eh?"

Mycroft raised a silken brow, tilted his head and stood smoothly. "Get the mistletoe and meet me out front. The quicker we get home the better."

Mycroft left Greg behind, who said quick goodbyes after pocketing the mistletoe. The night was a-wasting.

* * *

**A/N:** Second chapter for tonight a touch more Mystrade - I hope you don't mind. There is more to come... but not tonight. Thanks for reading. Mwah x


	7. Chapter 7

**Violet, the Bauble and the Skull**

A lot of toddlers are interested in flashing lights around the Christmas tree, maybe the red and white stockings around the fireplace and the boxes wrapped in brightly coloured paper. However, Violet Watson-Holmes was interested in the purple baubles.

There were about 4 of them scattered around the tree in plain sight and from the 1st December when the tree magically appeared, Violet had been planning a way to get to the baubles. Violet wanted to get to them and take them away to somewhere safe. They made her think of her Papa's shirt, the way they sort of shined and made the world infinitely more interesting.

Today Violet was going to get one of those baubles, and neither Papa nor Daddy would manage to stop her. Unlike the first botched attempt two days ago when Uncle Mycroft had visited with a job for Papa to do and he messed everything up.

Violet Watson-Holmes wasn't like other toddlers of two years and 9 months, thank you very much. Firstly, her Papa was Sherlock Holmes, she knew that because Daddy said it sometimes with the cross face and so did Nana, although that was usually when Papa had eaten the biscuits that had been made for Daddy and Vi. Violet knew some very big words - like exsanguinate - although she had no idea what it meant, other than it made Papa excited and Daddy look sad. She was working on why.

Violet sat on the sofa holding onto her little pirate that Papa had named Jack, and listened carefully. Daddy was in his armchair reading the newspaper, and Papa was in the kitchen looking through the scope talking to himself in hushed tones. He did that a lot.

"John, can you make me a drink please, and Vi too, she's looking thirsty." Papa spoke into the microscope, not lifting his head. Daddy huffed playfully as he stood and smiled at Violet before disappearing, and Violet knew that this was her chance.

Daddy's skull was on the floor under the table and she pulled it to the base of the tree, she already knew that it would be the right height, as the purple bauble was just out of her reach. She climbed onto it and balanced on one foot and stretched as far as she could until her fingers met cool plastic.

Violet wobbled on that one foot, and made a small squeak before she firmed her grasp and slipped simultaneously landing on her bottom. She had the purple bauble, and it was even more pretty sitting in her hand than she could have imagined. Its surface was cool and she could see her face in it with a purple shade. She brought it to her chest beaming happily as she planned how to get it to its new destination.

Violet's landing did not go un-noticed by her parents. In fact, they had sat and watched the whole thing just out of sight, beamed to each other in pride. Their little girl was inquisitive and smart enough to put together her own plan to get what she wanted, and they weren't going to punish the toddler for that. Instead Papa smiled at Daddy and said that she had his courage. To which Daddy beamed back and placed a cup on the table, and murmured that she was blessed with his brains and good looks.

They watched Violet wander out of sight, and appear a few moments later sans bauble. Her perfect blue eyes were bright as she crossed her arms over her chest like she'd seen Daddy do when things weren't going his way.

"Daddy, my drink now." Daddy frowned down and raised an eyebrow in anticipation, and Violet remembered what word he was waiting for. "Daddy, my drink… please."

Violet watched Daddy smile and pass down her Sippy cup, and as she took her first mouthful she watched Papa smile down the scope. Violet thought it might have been to do with that magic word "please", Daddy was always reminding her. Maybe it was a word that meant she could get praise or treats.

When Daddy passed Violet on the way back to the living room, she followed, and cast an eye to her hiding place before climbing on to Daddy's lap. The "please" thing warranted an investigation. She'd start making plans tomorrow. Daddy picked up the paper on the arm of the chair and hugged Violet in close, scanning the paper and occasionally reading out things from it while Papa simply said "boring" over and over again.

It was soothing to hear, Daddy and Papa trading comments back and forth, even as they become hazy and further away. Violet's last thought before she slipped into a blissful sleep was about how safe her commandeered bauble would be in her hiding spot, and she wondered what else she be able to add over the Christmas period.


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Hi guys, I am sorry for my little absence, but RL decided to intervene, so here is a quick fix to get the ball rolling again. Remember - reviews are like gorgeous Christmas cookies or Christmas stockings for of love. ;) RF

**A Pirate Christmas**

Sherlock sat in a brown leather arm-chair that dwarfed him at the tender age of seven, it was early Christmas morning and Mycroft had already ensured that breakfast was being prepared by their beloved house-keeper. Breakfast meant smoked salmon and cream cheese on muffins that Sherlock would pick at while Mycroft urged him to try just a little more, his appetite as a child being so similar to his future self.

Mycroft handed Sherlock a present - from Mummy by way of Santa - and he tore into the red paper with glee and bubbling theories until he got to the box in the center.

"What is it, Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered, shaking the box to see if it rattled.

"Well, you almost have it open, why don't you find out, little brother."

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft on the floor in front of him before puncturing the box and tearing off the lid. He took out the toy reverantly, slowly, so slow that Mycroft almost urged him to go faster, even though he knew what was contained within.

"It's my very own pirate ship! Mycroft, Santa got me my pirate ship! That's just what I wanted, it was on the list I sent him and everything." Sherlock jumped up with glee into Mycroft's arms, who held him in a hug before ruffling his unruly curls.

"Santa always tries his best to get what he can from the list. Maybe in the future you'll get a real sailing ship of your own. But remember that piracy is technically illegal." Mycroft smiled looking into his brothers happy pink face.

Sherlock went in search of his next present then, ship in hand with helpful care tips abandoned and forgotten in the box. He picked up the longer and slimmer box in silver and green and shook it to until it rattled.

"You'll like that one, Lock. I asked Santa for it on your behalf."

Sherlock's eyes went round once he had torn through the box and held a play sword by the hilt. It was long, looked silver in the right light and was not made of plastic but some light dull metal - by Mycroft's specific request. "It looks amazing, Mycroft. Where do you think that Santa got it?"

"Elves?" Mycroft shrugged nonchalantly, watching Sherlock place his hand correctly.

Sherlock waved it experimentally from side to side before lunging deeply. "It's not heavy at all, I can't wait to use it against someone."

Mycroft grinned and pulled a sword like his brothers from behind the chair, and twirled it in hand. "I shall teach you the basics, Sherlock. Then you can battle with any pirate you wish. It's basically fencing, and we start like this."

Mycroft took starting position and urged Sherlock to mirror him before walking him through the first steps. Sherlock's blue eyes lit up at the challenge and attack the British Empire representative with gusto, and they fought for what felt like hours.

Later, when they sat at the table eating, Sherlock looked pensive for a while and chewed his lip before he spoke. "Mycroft? Do you think that I'll get a skull and crossbones next year if I ask? A real one?"

Mycroft shifted in his chair, imagining the uproar from their parents versus the look of excitation on Sherlock's face, knowing which he would prefer and smiled while he ruffled Sherlock's curls. "Let's see what happens through the year, yes?"


	9. Chapter 9

**AN:** I must be on fire because here is another quick fix chapter. That isn't to say that I don't feel passionately about this pairing, and this scenario actually. I just put it together quicker than I normally would. ;) Please let me know what you think. Thanks, RF x

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**The Best Gift**

Mycroft was sitting in the parlour when he heard the front door open, and a low hushed voice give instructions about taking off shoes and hanging up coats. He was nervous, and this was a different sort of nerves from the ones he carried going n his first date with Gregory. He had already had his alloted glass of cognac and sipped at the remnants of the bitter coffee he followed it with.

Gregory's children had only met him a small handful of times over the last six months of their relationship, at Mycroft's own behest to wait, but Gregory wasn't taking no for an answer this time. Not at Christmas.

"Mycroft? Myc?" Greg called out.

"In the parlour, Gregory."

Greg strolled in wearing his trademark grey charcoal suit - that Mycroft secretly adored - and gave him a peck on the cheek as the children settled themselves on the big sofa. Alex was on his phone – no change from the last two times they met – and grinned over his screen a hello. If mobile phones had been around when he was fifteen maybe Mycroft would have been the same. Hazel tucked herself up in the corner and rested her head on the arm.

"Hello Mycroft. You been alright?" Hazel looked at his with careful brown eyes - like her father's - and Mycroft felt lost. He couldn't exactly tell the ten-year-old about the perils of being in the government.

"Alex, Hazel... I am well, thank you. How is school?" Mycroft asked, knowing that Hazel loved to learn and indeed was very bright. Both the Lestrade children were, and Mycroft knew Gregory was so very proud of them.

Greg disappeared and found himself alone with two children. Hazel took out her books and started to talk about the Shakespeare play she was reading, ever-so animated, that Mycroft begun to relax into a conversation. Only when Alex put his phone away with a huff did Mycroft sense something was amiss.

"Mycroft, this is going to sound weird - being that I've only met you a few times - but I need to know when you are going to ask our Dad to move in with you." Alex's bluntness echoed Sherlock's direct attitude that he did not feel wrong-footed, exactly, more that the topic felt suspiciously like 'what are your intentions?' coming from a guardian to a potential suitor.

"I, I'm sorry. Why would you think that things are at that level?"

Alex sat forward in his seat and Hazel seemed to give a subtle encouragement because he forged on. "Well, you are obviously very serious about him. You've given him your house key, and considering the line of work you are in, I would imagine that a degree of security would need to be in place here. Dad walks around your place like he spends most of his time here...In fact, we happen to know that he does, as we only ever seem to get him on the mobile now. I know that you have a set of his house keys too, by the way. Even now, he is pottering around the kitchen making dinner for us all." Alex paused and smiled as he noted the Christmas decorations around the mantle over the fire.

"I bet Dad put those decorations there to feel more at home. He'd normally use them at his place, along with that angel on the tree that Hazel made five years ago, and has seen better days. Do I need to go on?"

Mycroft's mouth was dry, and for the first time in many years thought he had found someone who could possibly be better at deduction than himself or his brother. He picked up his cup of coffee now, only to find it dry.

"No, no need to go on. What do you suggest? What would you both like?" Alex and Hazel shared a conspiring smile then, and Mycroft felt he had been subtly tag-teamed.

"We would like you to let us pick our own rooms and colour schemes while you go and get all kissy with our Dad and get him to move in here. We promise that when we stay, we wont be severely loud, or disrespectful. We like this place, and well... we like you. You make Dad happy, which is all we want really." Hazel charged on winningly.

Mycroft felt his head nod of its own accord and Alex popped from his seat as though a fire had been lit under him and tapped Mycroft on the arm with a thanks, before shooting from the room, phone still in hand. Hazel was a great deal calmer, and Mycroft had the feeling that she saw just as much as her brother did, she just preferred to process it in greater detail.

"Thank you, Mycroft. To be honest, this is our Christmas wish for our Dad. After us, you are the best gift he could have." Hazel smiled and pecked him a kiss on the cheek before darting from the room and up the stairs.

Mycroft drifted through to the kitchen a little time later, listening to tinny music being played through a phone two floors up, and watched Gregory in his kitchen cooking. With his jacket off, he looked relaxed as he sliced and diced vegetables and added them to the pan to cook, and he hummed to himself.

It felt like a home rather than a house.

"Gregory, I don't want you to leave." Mycroft shocked himself at hearing his own gravelly voice full of emotion as he watched Greg turn with a smile on his face and laughter bubbling out.

"Okay, once we've all eaten I'll take the kids home and come back here, Myc."

Mycroft turned the sentence over in his mind, and tried again.

"What I mean, Gregory dear, is that I don't want you to leave here to sleep at your place anymore. Not just for Christmas, but for the indeterminable future. I want you in this house with me every morning and every night. I want your kids to come for weekends. I want you to move in with me. You are the best gift I could ever have in this lifetime. You are simply perfect."

Greg kissed Mycroft. He kissed him as though they were alone in the house. He kissed him with a murmured "yes" and peppered "I love you's" until he smelled the oil burning at the food and went to salvage their dinner.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN:** Merry Christmas to everyone! I hope you have a great day, I am posting this so that maybe when you're full with turkey and everyone is watching a movie, you could be reading this. I hope you all get totally lovely things... I am here to deliver the Christmas gift of family fluff with Violet. I hope you enjoy! - RF

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The sound that woke John and Sherlock on Christmas morning on year was not each others snoring. It was not the smell of Christmas dinner downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's flat getting ready for them. It was not the doorbell ringing marking the arrival of Molly and Harry or Mycroft and Greg, or any of the other regular Christmas visitors 221 was used to getting at Christmas.

The sound that woke them was in fact footsteps of a small elephant. Or at least, that's what it sounded like to John as Violet stomped on every stair before shouting at the top of her seven-year-old lungs.

"It's Christmas. Papa, Daddy, wake up. It's present time," Violet ran through the kitchen and pushed their bedroom door open just a split second before she launched herself at their bed.

"Violet, we're up honey," John managed to grumble before she dove under the covers between them.

"Present's Daddy. Come on," Violet attempted to push John at his shoulders before realising that he was a lost cause and turning to Sherlock and pushing him with her feet. "Papa, come on, you love present's as much as I do. It's wrapping paper and guessing what is on the inside of the box. Papa!"

Sherlock spun on her and cradled her in is arms with speed, and plucked her from the bed with his laughter and her shrieks of fun and he popped her over his shoulder. "Alright, Vi. We're off. Let's go and see what Santa brought you."

John followed after he made the bed look at least a little more tidy. Their little hurricane known as Violet – too much like her Papa – had attacked and left horrors in her wake. He found Sherlock in the kitchen starting tea, and Violet placing the various presents in different piles as per who they were for. Violet's pile was biggest.

Placing a kiss on Sherlock's arm he waited for Violet to boss - sorry instruct - him to the pile that belonged to him.

Her straight black hair moved around her as she worked, before she pointed him to one place and Sherlock soon followed with tea at the other pile.

"Okay, Vi, you go first, see what Santa brought for you."

Violet went for the little red box on top and considered it before putting it back down.

"Daddy, I need to tell you something. And I don't want you to be mad." Violet chewed on her lip before darting a glance to Sherlock and back again. John smiled patiently and urged her on, but it was a moment before she could speak. "Thing is, Daddy, I don't… I don't… I know that Santa isn't real!"

Sherlock couldn't help but beam, and John fought a smile from his face. "Okay, Violet. Thank you for telling me. I just…, how did you know?"

Violet rolled her blue eyes before she listed them on her fingers. "There are too many Santa's dressed up in shops getting kids to confess what they want for Christmas – none of them are the same man. None of those Santa's have real reindeer, not even one. They always say that Santa knows each kids name, so why does he always ask our names, huh? All the presents get bought by you or Papa, or Nana or Granny. Sometimes Auntie Molly and Auntie Harry bring them with the silly excuse that Santa got the address wrong, and Uncle Myc and Uncle Greg just turn up with arms filled with gifts. Well if Santa were real, he does a really rubbish job of knowing where everyone is."

Violet huffed and paced, having found her feet during her observations, and blew her fringe out of her face before she continued. "What about adults? They get presents too, so who buys them? Santa? Rubbish. So the most obvious conclusion is that Santa doesn't exist and is a lie told by grown-ups. I just don't know why they would all tell this silly lie when kids figure it out."

Sherlock and John were stunned by her investigation. Yes – even Sherlock was stunned. He hadn't expected such a comprehensive list from his seven-year-old daughter, even though she was the brightest child he knew. He expected the admission, of course.

"So, you know that Santa isn't real. Okay. But the presents are no less yours, you know that right?" John managed and watched Violet become the very image of Sherlock, she straightened her back and her eyes squinted into focus.

"Of course the presents are mine! They have my name all over them, Daddy."

Sherlock could only laugh at John's goldfish impression as he handed Violet her the red box she had discarded, and they watched as she tore into it with glee. It was from Mrs Hudson, who had thought it was time Violet get to have her first nail varnish set full of girlie pastel colours. John didn't know how long Violet would be interested in the varnish, but now she was giving equal time to figuring out what was in her next box along which colour would look best on her. They took turns much in that same fashion until only Violet's presents remained and she played with them until she had to get dressed.

Later on Christmas Day, when Violet had fallen asleep after the mammoth lunch with Mrs Hudson, John and Sherlock snuggled on the sofa and looked at the maelström that their daughter had left.

There was giggling, mass amounts of giggling from John and Sherlock held him until he calmed down and waited for an explanation.

"So, we no longer have to fluff around with Santa reasoning. No more asking everyone to remember to use the Santa excuse," John kissed Sherlock's chin.

"I'm amazed it took her this long to come forward," Sherlock smiled down at John who looked confused. "Well, come on, she has been chewing on this for weeks, dropping hints up until the end of term... You didn't notice?"

John tucked himself into Sherlock and grunted. He had noticed. He had noticed and hoped that Violet would still be their sweet little girl through this Christmas, but her Holmesian personality meshed with her Watsonian personality which encouraged her to be honest. Curious and honest.

Curious, honest and full of observations.

John knew that Violet Watson-Holmes was nothing short of a chip off of the old block. At least the saga of Violet and Santa was done with for the future, something to blog about for sure.


End file.
